


Draco Malfoy and the Seven Weasleys

by FantasyFiend09



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 08:27:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1811851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FantasyFiend09/pseuds/FantasyFiend09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco's wicked uncle is trying to kill him, so he seeks refuge in an unlikely place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Draco Malfoy and the Seven Weasleys

**Author's Note:**

> This submission is part of HD Smoochfest on Livejournal. The theme this year is Media Remix, which invited participants to "remix" the story from a Book, Movie, or Television Show. The author/artist will be revealed at the end of the fest.
> 
> This was created for Prompt Number: B30  
> Original Work Name: Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
> 
> Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
> 
> Author's Notes: Many thanks to Iwao for the very speedy Beta job.  
> I loved this prompt and tried my best to stay true to the fairytale and the HP books. I omitted the poisoned comb, partially because I couldn't imagine this Draco being into a decorative comb, but also because I didn't want Draco to be so foolish as to be tricked three times! The downside of this fairytale is that Harry doesn't get a lot of screen time.

Malfoy Mirror  
On the wall  
Who is master  
of it all?  
  
 _Now that Lucius  
lies cold as stone  
The manor and vaults  
are for Draco to own._

 

  
* * *

His greatest childhood regret was that he had never managed to kill his brother. It hadn't been for lack of trying, but Lucius always managed to eat around the poisoned biscuit or avoid the Cursed broom. Eventually, Claudius had given up on offing Lucius and gaining the Malfoy inheritance for himself. He had moved to France and married a witch with plenty of gold for him to spend. And spend he did. He spent so much that he had to revive his old scheme for securing the Malfoy vaults and estates.  
  
Killing Lucius had been surprisingly easy after a childhood of failure. It was as if losing the war (again) had broken his spirit. It was actually rather disappointing, but it made it easier to accept that he would never get credit for the deed. The simple act of writing out "Death Eater scum" in Lucius' blood had ensured the Aurors didn't even question that the murderer was retaliation for Lucius' war crimes. Again, it was almost too easy.  
  
The only complication was that Lucius had an heir. Young Draco would have to be removed as well if the Malfoy holdings were finally to pass to Claudius. A minor annoyance, but one that could easily be fixed without Claudius even lifting a finger.

 

  
* * *

Draco had suspected it might not be his day when he stubbed his toe on the way from his bed to the toilet. His suspicion was confirmed when Blaise informed him that his uncle—who he'd never even met!—was trying to kill him.  
  
How did Blaise know about it? He was hired for the job. He took Claudius' gold—of course he did—but was friend enough not to follow through with the actual killing part. It wasn't surprising that Claudius thought Blaise would be willing to kill Draco. They had had a very violent and public falling out when Blaise first dumped Pansy for the Weasley girl, and a few death threats might have been shouted across the restaurant before Pansy and Ginny separated them. The  _Prophet_  gave them a front page article complete with photograph. Draco had it framed on his desk.  
  
Luckily, Claudius didn't seem to know that Draco had forgiven Blaise as soon as Pansy had moved on and they were closer than ever. What's a few death threats between friends?  
  
"So Claudius figured he could hire you to kill me because you already wanted my head on a plate?"  
  
Blaise grimaced and fidgeted with some bric-a-brac on the mantle over the fireplace. He had barely moved from the spot since he'd Flooed into Draco's study with his news. "Actually, it's your heart he wants as proof."  
  
Draco suddenly understood why he'd never met his uncle. "Oh, ew. That's just disgusting. Offing someone for their inheritance is one thing, but carving the corpse for body parts—what's he even going to  _do_  with it?" Creepy Dark rituals came to mind, and Draco began pacing the small room as he wondered what Claudius might hope to gain from his heart. Did Claudius really believe that ingesting the heart of a—  
  
"Draco! You're a bit off topic. Your uncle is trying to  _murder_  you, and given that he advised I write 'Death Eater Scum' in your blood to throw the Aurors off the scent, there is a good chance he was behind your father's death."  
  
Draco came to a halt as he felt his meagre breakfast fight its way up his throat. Could his uncle really have—he thought—the Aurors had said … Not that it changed the fact that his father was dead and his mother had fled to South America.  
  
"You need to go into hiding, Draco." Blaise's voice was gentle but insistent. "Claudius is determined to have you dead and the next assassin he hires will probably take the job far more seriously than I have."  
  
He was right, but what could Draco do? He couldn't report this to the Aurors. Most of them felt Draco should have been sentenced for his part in the war. They'd probably wait around  _hoping_  the next assassin succeeded.  
  
Not that the whole Ministry hated him. He had earned a fair amount of respect among his co-workers in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and the public was slightly less aggressive now that working with Granger had led to the occasional civil interaction with the Golden Trio. Nothing like a  _Prophet_  photograph of drinking champagne with Harry Potter to increase one's popularity. The public needn't know how awkward those few words of polite conversation had been.  
  
If the Aurors wouldn't protect him, he'd have to go into hiding. But Claudius would know about each of the Malfoy holdings, and Draco had no property from his mother's family. He collapsed into a chair.  
  
"Where can I go?"  
  
"The Burrow!" Blaise was beaming at his own idea. "Claudius would never look for you there, and there will be people there who can protect you."  
  
"Wouldn't it be a bit … crowded?" He'd heard the Weasleys lived in a tiny hovel. "And why would they even take me in?"  
  
"Ginny would do it for me. You could probably even stay in her room." Draco raised an eyebrow to show how unlikely it was that he would be permitted to sleep in the bedroom of the only Weasley girl. "Oh, come one. You're as gay as a pink balloon. You are clearly no threat to her virtue. As for why they'd take you in … you still playing housewife?"  
  
Draco growled at him. Blaise had been  _such_  an arse since he discovered Draco baking soufflés. "Cooking is  _not_  playing housewife! Many of the world's greatest chefs—"  
  
"—are men. Yes, I know. I'm not criticising. I'm saying that it might be your ticket in. Ginny's mother is teaching at Hogwarts this year and won't be back until June. Apparently they have been struggling in her absence. All the siblings are home—even the married one because his wife is in France with a sick grandparent—and none of them can cook."  
  
"I take it your little lady isn't a domestic goddess."  
  
Blaise bristled. "She doesn't have time to cook! Her training schedule with the Harpies is brutal. And … and—!"  
  
"And I tasted the cake she made for your birthday." How could he forget a bite of cake that seemed determined not to dissolve in his mouth despite repeated chewing? He'd finally resorted to choking it down whole with a large gulp of wine. "The less time that witch spends in a kitchen, the better for the health of everyone she knows."  
  
"Her talents lie elsewhere." As much as Blaise was quick to speak for his girlfriend, even he seemed incapable of saying anything positive for her cooking.  
  
"You are very noble to defend her, but back to the bit about me fleeing my murderous uncle. You really think they are desperate enough to let me go live with them?"  
  
Blaise nodded solemnly. "You tasted that cake, and Ginny is actually a better cook than most of her siblings."  
  
Draco cringed. "Ooh. Not good."  
  
"Exactly. Ginny's dad is so bad in the kitchen he nearly burned the whole house down. Trust me: this is win-win. You pack a bag, and I'll go Floo Ginny."  
  
As Draco packed his things, he considered sending an owl to his mother. What if she was in danger, too? He quickly dismissed the thought. If Narcissa knew, she'd insist that he join her in Argentina—or worse, she'd return to England—and that  _would_  put her in danger. Claudius was probably trying to get the Malfoy estate, and luckily the Malfoy coffers passed only by blood.

 

* * *

Several Weasleys met them at the door of their twisty, creaky home. Seven, to be precise: the Muggle obsessed father, the one with Greyback's scars, the dragon tamer, the Ministry boot-licker, the twin who was no longer one of two, Granger's Weasley, and … Ginny. Draco had actually grown rather fond of the youngest Weasley now that her Hexes were on his side.  
  
Draco glanced at each of them in turn, mentally cataloguing the various reasons they might have to hate him. He was civil with the youngest two, but surely the one with Greyback's scars wanted to give Draco a matching set for opening Hogwarts to the werewolf in the first place. Draco wondered what he might be able to say to ease the tension when Weasley—shit, that wasn't going to work, was it?—Granger's Weasley broke the silence.  
  
"You can cook?" It wasn't accusatory or disbelieving; it was hopeful and slightly desperate. He usually ignored Draco on the rare occasions when their paths crossed, but now he was staring right into Draco's eyes.  
  
"Can he cook?" Blaise boomed. "You haven't lived until you're had his pasta." Blaise led Draco forward with a firm hand on his back, and the Ginger Sea parted to let them through the door.  
  
Draco found himself in a sizeable and homey kitchen with eight sets of eyes burning into him. The expectation was heavy in the air.  
  
Cook.  
  
It was a test and his safety was at stake. He opened a narrow door and found a well-stocked larder. The Weasley matriarch had been gone long enough that the Stasis Charms had worn off, but luckily none of the produce had yet gone off. He grabbed pasta and various vegetables before stepping back into the kitchen to find pots.  
  
It was the most awkward meal he'd ever prepared. No one spoke; they all stared at him as he sliced, sprinkled, and stirred. When he set the pasta and sauce on the table with wine and cheese, all of the Weasleys sat in unison and began loading up their plates. Blaise stood at Draco's side and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. There was chomping, groaning, and murmurs, but no one spoke until the father of the lot had finished. He pushed back his chair and settled his hands across his stomach. For such a slender man, he carried a sizeable middle.  
  
"We'll need some ground rules, I think." He looked up at Draco. "First of all: names. Draco, I know that you and my son still go by surnames, but that won't work with seven Weasleys. Your father and I managed to use each other's given names … despite our differences. I expect you all to manage the same." His stern look left Draco and touched on each of his children in turn.  
  
There was a murmured, "Yes, Dad," and a couple nods.  
  
"Ron, since you've been sharing with George, would you mind if Draco stays in your old room?"  
  
Draco wanted to laugh at the mere idea of the Weasel letting him sleep in his bed. As expected, the Weasel's shoulders tensed and he scowled. But rather than shout or throw things, he pierced Draco with a serious look.  
  
"Can you bake?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Bake. Biscuits. Muffins. Cakes."  
  
"Yes. Yes, I do."  
  
The Weasel stared at him and then gave a little nod. He dropped his napkin onto the table and rose to his full height. "C'mon, then. I'll show you your room." He looked Draco in the eye. "There's a spare bed. You're not to touch mine."  
  
Draco nodded, knowing that was more than he could ever have expected.

 

* * *

Draco went straight to bed that first night. He even skipped his usual evening ablutions so he could stay locked away in the privacy of the attic. The room was hideously decorate with the garish orange of the British league's  _worst_  Quidditch team.  _Of course_ , the Weasel—fuck, he was supposed to call him  _Ron_  now, wasn't he? How was that going to happen? Ron. As if they were  _mates_.  
  
The lack of warm feelings between the two of them made it all the stranger that Draco was now staying in  _Ron's_  bedroom. Draco didn't open any drawers, but he did notice a framed photograph in a place of honour on the dresser.  _Ron_  was standing in a field with  _Potter_ —because he didn't live there and wasn't part of Arthur's decree—and … well it did seem weird to call her Granger if he was calling her boyfriend by his given name. She called him Draco. Had done for months.  
  
He wrinkled his nose as he thought about her given name. It was quite a mouthful. Granger was efficient and clever, just like the witch. Her-mi-o-ne was … tedious. He snickered to himself as he realised that too fit the witch. Fine then. Hermione.  
  
The next morning, Draco woke with the sun. He couldn't lie in when he didn't feel at home, so he decided to put himself straight to work. As the sausages cooked, he wiped down the kitchen were dust had been accumulating since the matriarch’s departure.  
  
"God! That smells amazing."  
  
Draco whipped around to meet the scarred face of … shit, what was his name?  
  
The burly one who worked with dragons came in next and inhaled with exaggeration. "It's almost like having Mum back." His smile was a bit too much like a leer for Draco's liking. "But with a nicer arse."  
  
Arthur walked in and smacked the burly one upside the head with an ease that spoke of years of practice. "Charlie, leave Draco alone. He doesn't need you trying to seduce him when he has a murderous uncle to worry about."  
  
Charlie rolled his eyes and winked at Draco.  
  
"Don't mind him," the scarred one assured Draco. "He's a harmless flirt. If you don't have wings and breathe fire, you won't hold his attention more than a minute."  
  
One by one the seven Weasleys filed in with snarky comments and playful ribbing. Luckily most of it was aimed at one another, and Draco received nothing but praise for the breakfast he served them. When Draco set out packed lunches for them to take to work, more than one eye looked dangerously moist.  
  
Fucking hell. These people needed a house elf.  
  
He ignored the little voice in his head that suggested they had one: him.

 

* * *

  
It was amazing how easily Draco and the Weasleys settled into a routine. Draco cooked, cleaned, and laundered, and the Weasleys treated him … really well. Charlie flirted and George played tricks, but all of them made him feel welcome and appreciated. It was a bit frightening, but … nice.  
  
Hermione was very sympathetic to his plight and arranged for him to be able to work from home. She brought him every file and document he needed from the Ministry and filled him in on each meeting he missed. His supervisor didn't seem to care so long as Hermione was checking in on him and the reports were being done. Draco had actually grown rather fond of spreading his paperwork across the large kitchen table and having the kettle to hand for easy tea refills. It was warmer, cosier, and quieter than his cramped Ministry office.  
  
The only thing about the Burrow that didn't bring Draco peace of mind was the frequent visits by Harry Potter. Seeing Potter made Draco's body fall apart: his skin felt too small, his fingers fumbled over everything, and his stomach was suddenly full of doxies. Potter was perfectly civil, but there was a palpable tension between them. Draco couldn't talk to Potter without his tongue becoming heavy and slow, so he would talk to anyone else in the room. Potter soon gave up trying to engage Draco in conversation and started to just  _watch_  him.  
  
It should have been creepy. It really should have. But Draco—although he would admit it to  _no one_  found himself alone in his bed smiling after an evening of Potter's eyes burning into his skin.

 

* * *

  
Malfoy Mirror  
On the wall  
Who is master  
of it all?  
  
 _Draco lives  
safe and sound  
his is title,  
gold, and ground._  
  
Oh for the love of—he  _knew_  that heart looked wrong. That thieving Zabini was no better than his mother. No, if Claudius wanted something done properly, if he wanted someone dead, he had to do it himself.

 

* * *

  
It was a cold wet day, and the Burrow felt lonely. The constant din of falling rain was worse than silence, and no amount of tea could warm his bones. A knock sounded on the door, and Draco was almost grateful for the reminder that he was not alone in the world. He was surprised, of course, because it was too early for anyone to be dropping by for lunch.  
  
Before Draco could panic, a gentle voice called out, "Twilfitt and Tattings!"  
  
That was unusual. Draco was sure that all of the Weasleys still shopped at Madam Malkins. Perhaps George? He did go in for high-end purchases more often then the rest, but Twilfitt and Tattings did not carry the flamboyant styles he favoured. In his curiosity, Draco made his way to the peep-hole. A portly little wizard stood at the door frowning at his pocket watch and then at the door. "It's eleven o'clock. You called for a fitting."  
  
It must be a mistake. The only one ever home at eleven was Draco, and he most certainly had not arranged a fitting. A shame, really. He hadn't had a chance to buy new robes, and his old ones were getting slightly too short at the wrists and ankles. He missed the feeling of trying on a new robe when the fabric was at its finest and the hues were at their riches. But the fact remained that no one had scheduled anything with this peddler.  
  
"You've made a mistake," Draco said through the heavy door that all but hummed with defensive magic. "No one arranged a fitting."  
  
"No one … Are you sure?" The man's voice sounded very small and barely carried to Draco's ears over the drumming of the rain.  
  
"Certain."  
  
"So I just Apparated out here and walked up this whole way for … nothing?"  
  
Draco did feel sorry for the man. It was dreadful weather.  
  
"Mind if I use your Floo to get back? I have all of these shrunken robes in my pocket, and I worry what the rain will do to the silk."  
  
Silk? Draco  _loved_  silk, and silk did not love rain. It seemed such a shame for the poor peddler to have come so far without a chance of a sale. And here Draco was in need of the very things this wizard had in his pocket! Without another thought, Draco opened the door and let the man out of the storm.  
  
"Oh, thank you. Wasn't sure if the cold or wet was bothering me more." The man shook the water off his hat and then looked up at Draco. He cocked his head to the side and gave Draco a full look-over. "You look like the sort who can wear a fine robe. I have a silver silk one that would look like it was made for you."  
  
Draco felt the greed rise up in his chest. It must have shone on his face because the man immediately pulled something out of his robes and handed it to Draco.  
  
"Go ahead and unshrink it."  
  
Draco pulled his wand and touched it to the delicate fabric. Instantly there was a full-length robe of finest silk in a pale silver. Long green cords hung from the side that were meant to tie the bodice and provide a slim fit through the chest and hips. It was a look Draco knew flattered his lean figure.  
  
"Would you like to try it on?"  
  
Draco removed his robe and let the man slip the luscious material over his simple shirt and trousers. The silk was cool and incredibly soft.  
  
"Let me straighten the shoulders and then I'll tie the back." The man's thick fingers handled the fabric gently until it fell perfectly. "Now I'll just lace you up before I have you take a look." The gentleness left as the peddler wrapped the cords firmly around Draco and pulled them tight.  
  
"Hey, now. I appreciate a well-fitted robe, but there is no need to choke me in this …" It seemed each time he paused for a breath, there was less and less room for him to fill his lungs. "It's … tight … too tight … air." Draco reached out for the peddler's arm to brace himself, but the little man was no longer there. Draco opened his mouth, attempted to suck in air, and collapsed into blackness.

 

* * *

  
"Is he breathing?"  
  
"Give him space."  
  
Murmured voices and hazy light filled his consciousness. He groaned and the voices became excited. He blinked and the Weasley kitchen slowly came into focus. He was looking up at the hob. From the floor. Glancing down his body, he saw torn silver silk and everything came back to him.  
  
"The peddler."  
  
"What peddler? Who was here?" That was Harry's voice. Yes, Harry. Arthur had insisted that the given name rule extend that far, but it was Harry calling him, "Draco" that decided it. The way Harry's lips curved around the "o" made Draco a little hard. It made Draco want to call him, "Harry."  
  
"He …"  
  
Draco closed his eyes, and when he opened them again he was in his bed—or rather the bed he used—in Ron's attic bedroom. The sun had dropped and gave off little more than a glow from the pink horizon. Voices carried from below.  
  
He climbed from bed and saw he'd been left to sleep in his now-wrinkled shirt and trousers. Wondering what had happened to him, Draco went to find answers.  
  
The seven Weasleys were seated at the kitchen table and they fell silent for only a moment before each of them was calling questions at him. It took ages before they told him the tale of Harry, Ron, and Hermione walking in for an early lunch to find Draco collapsed on the floor with only the faintest pulse. They had quickly ripped the constrictive robes away and it was then that Draco briefly regained consciousness.  
  
They'd called a Healer to the Burrow who assured them there was no long term damage from the lack of air, but only because of the timing. She said another few minutes and it would have been a different prognosis. Ginny relayed that bit of the story, and her eyes were wet and fierce as she spoke. Somehow, Draco had found himself inside the protective circle of Gryffindor loyalty.

 

* * *

  
For the rest of the evening and the next morning, Draco was never alone. Ron slept in his old bed. Hermione came over first thing in the morning when the others left for work. When she left for a morning meeting, Harry arrived with a stack of parchment that he spread across the kitchen table. Harry stared at his work, and yet Draco could not shake the feeling that Harry was watching him. It was ridiculous, but Draco couldn't deny that he was a little bit touched by everyone's concern. He must bake better than he'd ever realised.  
  
It was midday when George returned on his lunch break.  
  
"You can go, Harry. I'm here now."  
  
"What did you find out at Twilfitt and Tattings?" Harry made no indication of leaving, his papers still spread out and his arse in a chair.  
  
George gave a little frown but nodded. "They wouldn't talk to me. They said they'd only talk to the Aurors."  
  
Harry slammed his hand down on the table but remained silent. Harry had wanted to file a report with the Aurors, but Ron had refused on the grounds that it would make the Burrow a crime scene and open to various Ministry personnel they couldn't trust. Harry had suggested Draco move in with him—and hadn't that done ridiculous things to Draco's stomach—but that idea was shot down by seven angry Weasleys.  
  
Draco glanced from George to Potter and back. "I doubt they'd know anything anyway. Anyone could get a fine robe and pretend to be from Twilfitt. I think we all know who sent him."  
  
Potter let out a low growling noise while George just stared at the wall with a cold eyes.  
  
They stayed frozen like that until Draco became uncomfortably aware of the hard wooden chair against his tail bone.  
  
"So … um …" He wasn't sure what to say, but standing around wasn't helping and he  _did_  have a report to write.  
  
Harry was getting twitchy, his knee trembling under the table. His fingers soon followed suit, tapping his quill against a piece of parchment.  
  
"Harry, get out of here." George's voice was gentle but firm. Harry glared at him, but George just rolled his eyes. "Sitting around isn't your forte. You want to be out  _doing_  something. Go find something to do."  
  
Harry glanced at Draco, but George waived him off with assurances that Draco would be fine. Harry finally nodded, slowly gathering his things and saying goodbye to Draco with such intensity that Draco felt its touch on his skin.  
  
When Harry finally shut the door behind him, George let out a breath. "He can be a bit intense, can't he?"  
  
Draco laughed. "Understatement."  
  
"Hungry?"  
  
Draco groaned as he dropped his head to the table. "Did you just come back to get me to make you lunch? You greedy bastard!" A thump sounded by his ear, and he sat up to find a perfect green apple.  
  
"They're amazing." George was smiling as he gestured towards the apple. "I brought one back for you."  
  
A warm feeling spread through Draco's chest. He still couldn't believe all the little gestures of kindness and concern the Weasleys showed him. "Thank you," he whispered.  
  
He picked up the round fruit and turned it in his hand to appreciate the flawless skin and bright colour. Curious if the taste matched the appearance, he took a bite. The sound was a clear crunch and then tart juice with a hint of sweetness filled his mouth. He chewed slowly enjoying the flavour.  
  
Then it changed.  
  
It tasted as if the juice were rotting on his tongue and his mouth was so dry he couldn't speak. He coughed and his throat burned. Draco's mind struggled to comprehend what was happening. Something wrong. The apple. Poisoned! How? Who?  _George_! The stab of betrayal hurt more than the burning in his throat.  
  
He looked up at George to see him smiling victoriously. Before Draco lost consciousness, his last thought was to wonder why George's hair looked white.

 

* * *

  
Draco opened his eyes to bright light. Blinking, he realised there was nothing but light. White, as far as he could see. He stood up and looked around, but there was nothing but white. He began walking. Everything looked the same. He kept walking. There was no scenery to mark the passing of distance, but the act of walking was soothing. Draco wondered if it was the only thing keeping the inevitable panic attack at bay.  
  
Because surely he was dead.  
  
He ate a poisoned apple and woke up in white emptiness. So was this all there was for eternity? He heard a distant echo of shouting, but he couldn't place the voices or the words. Just as suddenly, it was gone. Draco forced his feet to keep moving. When sound returned, it was quite murmurs and desperate pleading, but Draco could make out nothing more than the tone. There were sobs.  
  
The silence returned and hung over him. He was surprised his legs and feet weren't tired from his walking. Could his body tire when he was dead? Surely, this body wasn't real.  
  
A strong voice echoed through the emptiness. There was a finality to the tone, like someone seeking closure. Draco felt certain it was a man's voice, but faces slipped away before he could put one to the voice.  
  
He kept walking until he felt something warm and soft on his lips. He tasted tart berries and felt his heart flutter. The next step fell through the ground.  
  
There was no ground.  
  
Just falling.

 

* * *

  
"Draco?"  
  
Draco ignored the tiny voice, focused entirely on getting the horrible taste from his mouth. He spat out the offending mass onto his hand. It was a piece of apple so rotten it was black. He flinched and it fell to the grass.  
  
Grass.  
  
He was sitting on the grass outside the Burrow. A cup was pressed into his hand, and he took it and drank without thinking.  
  
The grass was cold and hard. Looking down, he saw that there was something between him and the grass. He was sitting on glass on top of the grass. A glass coffin.  
  
"Why am I in a coffin?" His voice was too high and he thrashed his limbs as he sprang to his feet.  
  
Soon there were more limbs and Draco fell forward to land on the grass. But not the grass. Harry had somehow come between him and the grass and looked completely shocked.  
  
"You're alive." The whisper was heavy with something like reverence so that Harry sounded nothing like himself. Then Harry's mouth was on his and the taste of berries took Draco back to the white place with nothing but walking. Draco had tasted this before. He'd tasted Harry.  
  
He pushed Harry away. "You kissed me. Before. You kissed me  _twice_." This was all too much to process. Death was quite a lot to process just on its own without Harry Potter fucking kissing him. Willingly. Twice!  
  
Harry was all wide-eyed and red cheeked, looking a bit like he wanted a cliff to throw himself off. He was stuttering out apologies.  
  
Draco sat up, but stayed sat on Harry's lap. "I'm not angry. I'm just trying to understand. It's been one hell of a day." Actually, how long had it been?  
  
"Days. Today is Thursday and you bit the apple on Tuesday." Harry stared at his fingers as he pulled at the grass. "We'd given up. I was just saying goodbye to you before we sent the coffin to your mother."  
  
His mother? She thought he was dead? Oh, fuck. He needed to sort this out. He tried to stand but Harry grabbed his arm. "You're going to St. Mungo's. I'll owl your mother to meet you there."  
  
"But my uncle will—"  
  
"He's in custody at the Ministry." Harry's glared at a distant hill as he spoke. "His Polyjuice ran out as he was poisoning you, and I came back into the kitchen just as he changed." Draco remembered the image of George with white hair. "The apple alone is enough evidence to send him away for life, and no one has stepped forward in his defence. His trial will be little more than a formality."  
  
Harry's eyes softened as they met Draco's. "You've been all but dead for days. You need a Healer and something to eat and drink."  
  
Draco nodded sleepily, and let Harry Apparate him to a soft bed and quiet.

 

* * *

  
Draco had rather liked the notion that Harry's kiss had saved him from death, but the Healer's version was much less romantic. Rather like the Healer herself.  
  
She explained that Harry had been Levitating Draco's coffin to the edge of the Burrow's anti-Apparition wards when he stopped to say his goodbyes. When he kissed Draco, he stopped concentrating on the Levitation Charm and the coffin fell to the grass where the impact knocked the piece of apple from Draco's throat to the front of his mouth. The Healer relayed all of this as she measured out a cup of goopy green potion and then poured it down Draco's protesting throat.  
  
"You didn't actually swallow the poisoned piece of apple, and the poison needs to react with stomach acid to become fatal. Without that reaction, it only slows the heart and lungs until you are in a state of suspended animation."  
  
 _Only. _Because having everyone think you are dead and nearly stick your coffin in a mausoleum where you would waste away until you were _actually_  dead was no big deal.  
  
"We've treated you for dehydration and starvation, but you were otherwise healthy as soon as the apple lost contact with your throat."  
  
Draco used her own words to argue for instant discharge from St. Mungo's. The mediwitch had a snit about him walking out within an hour of waking, but the Healer waved her off and signed the discharge paperwork.  
  
As soon as they left the room, Draco stood and began changing from the scratchy hospital gown to his waiting clothing. It was as he was buttoning his shirt that he realised he no longer had reason to go to the Burrow. Claudius was captured. There was no one to hide from any longer.  
  
He should have been excited—and he was thrilled not to be actively hunted—but the thought of leaving the Burrow to return to the Manor …  
  
He thought of long empty corridors and rooms tainted by horrible memories. He thought of the rooms filled with happy memories from his childhood, but those too made him sad as he remembered his father's murder and his mother's refusal to return to the Manor.  
  
"Draco."  
  
He could still hear her voice as if she were there.  
  
"Draco."  
  
He turned and saw her standing in the doorway. Realising she was real, he rushed to her arms. Her delicate fingers threaded through his hair as she held him close. She kissed him lightly on the brow and he felt as if he were ten again. "I am so glad you are alive." Her voice shook slightly, but was as strong as he always remembered.  
  
He pulled back to look at her face and was pleased to see the tension around her eyes and mouth had lessened since the war. Argentina had been good to her.  
  
"I'm sorry to have worried you."  
  
She shook her head. "You have nothing to be sorry about." She arched a brow and a little smile pulled at her lip. "Although I was quite surprised by the details of the story. You living with the Weasleys and Harry Potter kissing you? Not quite what I was expecting you to get up to when I Portkeyed abroad."  
  
Draco felt his cheeks burning at the mention of Harry's kiss. He knew he had to say something but had no idea what.  
  
"Oh Draco, don't be embarrassed. I'm happy you've found people who care for you. Every day, I wonder if I made a mistake leaving England without you. Every night, I worry about you sleeping in the Manor with nothing but portraits for company. I can't tell you how relieved I am to know that Arthur has taken you in and has treated you like family. He's an odd man—and his obsession with Muggles is a bit alarming—but he's kind and loyal and won't let anyone harm you."  
  
Draco smiled in his relief until he saw the glint of mischief in his mother's eyes. "As for being courted by Harry Potter—"  
  
"Not courted!" Draco was sure he was scarlet up to his ears. "It was just a kiss."  
  
Both of his mother's eyebrows were raised and her lips were pursed as if she were smothering a laugh. "Oh no, it wasn't. I have met with Mr. Potter, who stumblingly enquired as to whether there were any pureblood wizarding traditions he should know about before wooing you." She smirked and batted her eyes playfully.  
  
Draco's blood left his face as quickly as it had flooded it. "Mother. What. Did. You. Tell him?"  
  
She laughed, and it was an open laugh that reached into her lungs. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard it, but it sounded like joy. "Oh, darling. I did nothing to sabotage your happiness." She sobered and ran a tender hand along his jaw. "I never would."  
  
Draco had forgotten how much he missed her voice, her touch. He was glad she was enjoying Argentina, but he hoped she would visit more often. Maybe he could visit, too.  
  
"I suggested starting with asking you to dinner." His mother had that mischievous smile again. "I said you are a pushover for chocolate, scarves, and cocktails made with champagne. I figured that was enough to get him started." Draco wanted to scold his mother for meddling, but he was far too pleased to manage.  
  
The meddling proved rather pleasant when Harry arrived at the Burrow later that evening and asked Draco to dinner at the Golden Goblet.  
  
The chocolate arrived the day after, but Draco had to wait until Christmas for Harry to give him a scarf. They spent the week after Christmas in Argentina, and Draco suspected Harry spent half the trip getting tips from Draco's mother. Valentine's day certainly had his mother's advice all over it. How else would Harry have known Draco's favourite composer?  
  
What was all Harry was the bumbling way he had asked Draco to move in with him as soon Molly was done with Hogwarts for the year. There was talk of her returning in the autumn and teaching permanently, but the Weasleys would have to figure out their own meals in her absence. Draco and Harry had their own home to keep.__

 

_* * The End * *_

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